


The Thunder

by rosiedoesfic



Category: Bandom, Fall Out Boy
Genre: Folie a Deux, M/M, Mild mental stress, Patroh, Pre-Hiatus (Fall Out Boy)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-06
Updated: 2016-11-06
Packaged: 2018-08-29 13:07:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,094
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8490925
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rosiedoesfic/pseuds/rosiedoesfic
Summary: But for now, he was a comfort blanket; another heartbeat in the blacked out room.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [heartofthesunrise](https://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofthesunrise/gifts).



> This fic is a birthday gift for [heartofthesunrise](http://archiveofourown.org/users/heartofthesunrise/pseuds/heartofthesunrise), who is not only the author of one of the loveliest fics for this ship, but has lent me valuable beta skills for TWNW. 
> 
> Happy belated birthday, bud.
> 
> * * *
> 
> Thanks to [distortedmya](http://archiveofourown.org/users/distortedmya/pseuds/distortedmya) for parachuting in to beta this work at the last minute.

  
**The Thunder**  
_You can get, get addicted to this_

 

It was after three in the morning when Joe padded down the steps from his guestroom and into the pool yard between Neal’s house and his studio, tucked away like a grotto at the side of the garden. He couldn’t sleep, tonight; it was too hot, too close to a summer storm and he was far too wired from the fight they’d all had that evening.

Pete had stormed off back to his family. Andy had sat around for a while, trying to quietly make his point before leaving to collect Matt from the airport because he was flying in for a couple of days. Patrick just shut himself back up in the studio and reworked the same twelve seconds of track over and over, refusing to let anyone touch it until he had something ‘presentable’. Joe had stayed behind, talking to Neal until the early hours and eventually accepting the offer of a guestroom, rather than drive back to his apartment half-cut, and kill himself on the winding roads.

But even with the lights off and the balcony doors open, laying back against cool, cotton sheets, Joe couldn’t settle. He tried. He lay there for well over an hour before he sat up again, scratching through his curls and wondering where he had left his phone, so he could check the time.

Ordinarily, he would just roll himself a joint and relax; chill out and let himself drift off to sleep whenever his brain gave up trying to make sense and switched itself to standby. But he wasn’t at home, here. He wasn’t even in an expensive hotel, where staff would turn a blind eye to the occasional drift of hemp from one of their allocated smoking suites. He never smoked inside the house, even though he knew Neal wouldn’t mind; he’d always prided himself on having enough consideration not to do that in other people’s homes – he always made an effort to go outside or off their property, so as not to implicate them in the fantasy drug raids he always constructed in his head – and tonight he was glad of the excuse to be outside for a while.

He scuffed around the room until he literally stumbled across his flip-flops, and headed to the stairs in yesterday’s jeans with his t-shirt in hand, just in case. It would be awkward to bump into Neal’s wife half-naked in the middle of the night.

The air outside wasn’t much cooler, but the stone slabs beside the pool were cold when he sat on them, pants pulled up to his knees, feet in the water, and smoked. It was calm and peaceful behind the protective gates at the bottom of the drive; it seemed a million miles away from the city, which was just sparkling lights across the hillside, if you stood at the right vantage point.

He had only been there for a few minutes when he heard the crash, almost entirely muffled by the sound proofing in the studio. At first, he was sure it had been from a neighbouring property or out on the private road beyond the gates; but when it came again, followed by a quiet skittering of metal across the floor and the crash of a cymbal collapsing, Joe realised that it wasn’t.

He hadn’t given much thought to where Patrick was. He’d assumed that eventually he would become frustrated enough to leave, and go home to sulk at himself for not being infallible and at the rest of them for not being able to hear or recreate the music the way it was in his head. It hadn’t even occurred to him that he would still be ensconced in the studio by himself at this hour, but now that he knew, he climbed to his feet and left trail of wet footprints to the door.

"Patrick?"

There was an audio clip on loop, playing the same few bars over and over, and in the middle of the ante-room they used for practising and writing together before putting any of it down, propped against the front of the couch, was Patrick. His hat was missing; found, after a cursory look, discarded beneath the drum stool and several feet from his glasses, which were themselves looking a little limp – one arm twisted and almost snapped off from impacting the floor at what must have been some velocity.

"Patrick?"

"I can’t," he said simply, his shoulders lifting and then dropping away as if he couldn’t even muster the energy to hold them up for more than a moment.

"Can’t what?" Joe asked, picking his way around scattered but largely intact equipment to crouch before him. He rested a hand gently on one drawn-up knee.

"I can’t do it. I just – I can’t make it right and I can _hear it_ , Joe – it’s all right. fucking. there. – but I can’t make it work, and I don’t even – I just can’t _do it_ anymore! What the fuck is wrong with me? Seriously? What the fuck is wrong with me that I can’t make this simple fucking track _work_?" A nearby pedal received a vicious kick that sent it in clunking rolls across the rug.

"It’s late, dude. You’re probably tired. And hungry. When was the last time you even ate?"

"Ate?" Patrick echoed blankly. "It was only a couple of hours ago… lunch. We had a late lunch, remember? The quiche."

"That was like, twelve hours ago. It’s after three, man."

"In the morning?!"

"Well, it’s like, dark out, still… so yeah, morning-ish."

"What - ? I mean… why are you still here?" Patrick demanded, looking stunned. "Go home!"

"I’m staying over, dude. Neal and I had a couple of beers waiting for you to come on in, and then you never did. Fact is, I kind of forgot you were here and like, figured you’d gone home or something…"

"No – no, see, I can’t go anywhere, I have to stay until I get this _fixed_. We can’t do anything tomorrow until this is figured out."

"Sure you can – we can just work on something else. Come back to this in a couple of days or whatever, when we’re like, a little more fresh."

"But you don’t understand, I have it in my head _now_!"

"Won’t it still be there tomorrow?"

"No. Well, maybe, but I don’t know, so I have to – "

Joe cut him off by standing up abruptly, his knees clicking as he did so and his hands clasping both of Patrick’s wrists. "C’mon."

"What? No… I can’t, Joe – "

"Yes, you can."

"No – "

"Yes! But you’ll have to drive, because I don’t trust me behind a wheel after -"

"What? Where are we going?"

"To get something to eat, and then home. You need to get out of a the studio, man. You're gonna make yourself ill."

"I don't - "

"No arguments." He leaned all of his weight back, to force Patrick to his feet, then picked up his hat and glasses, placing the former on his head and gently bending the hinge on the latter until they sat almost straight. "Here."

Reluctantly, Patrick placed them on his nose, grimacing at the slightly crooked angle, and Joe couldn't help smiling at him. He looked a little ridiculous, but no more so than when he wore metallic red sneakers with a hoodie in four different colours, none of which matched them.

He grabbed his own hoodie from the back of the couch and pulled his wallet and keys from the pocket, then pushed him out of the door.

They found a corner booth at IHOP, blessing the air conditioning, tucked into a far corner with a window overlooking the parking lot. Joe made him order a proper meal, something with eggs and an approximation of 'vegetables' rather than a plate of flour and sugar, because he knew that exactly 24 minutes later he'd be feeling shittier, otherwise, promising to share a plate of french toast with him once he was done.

"Stop thinking about it, dude," he instructed, over the top of his coffee cup, when Patrick's gaze drifted off to the horizon, his fingers forming chords on the edge of the tabletop.

"Sorry… I just… I _know_ how it's gotta sound, y'know? And I can't make it happen. I feel like I ran out of magic dust…"

"You don't need magic dust," Joe told him, kicking his ankle under the table, "you're made of magic. What you need to do is stop, like, pressuring yourself. You need to share this, dude. I know you're like, my little mad scientist, and everything but you can't keep it up forever. I'm here, yeah? Tap me in."

"Thanks, I know I should… I just…"

"What?"

"People think it's all me, now, y'know?" Patrick shrugged, twisting his glass of juice in his fingers, staring down into it.

"Yeah, I noticed."

There was a small, cynical snort in response. "Exactly. So, I need to make this _right_ \- it has to blow people away, if this album flops or something, it's my name - my reputation - if this goes to shit, I'll never work again."

Joe frowned at him. "If what goes to shit? The band? You think the band's going to shit?"

"No, I just mean… One day, okay? One day, this isn't going to be happening anymore and I what am I going to do? Besides, I don't want you to get all caught up in being responsible for a bad album."

"Well, that's super noble of you and everything but I'd rather be caught up in a shitty album than not get to do anything at all, while my best dude gives himself a breakdown."

Patrick smiled at him gratefully and sat up to let the waitress put his plate down in front of him.

He took a deep breath and picked up his fork with a determination that belied his reluctance. Instead, he poked at his omelette and nibbled at scraps on the tip of his fork while he rambled about responsibility and ideas and Joe just let him, glad to see the gradual increase in rate as half a day without food caught up with him.

"So, are we going back?" Patrick asked hopefully, as Joe dropped some bills on the table with the check, and pushed him towards the door.

"Man, are you nuts? No! We're going to your apartment and we're getting some sleep, dude."

"You're gonna stay, though, right?"

"Yeah, dude," Joe assured him, tucking an arm around his shoulders. "Of course I am."

Patrick's little apartment in LA was mostly crammed with vinyl and instruments he claimed to be teaching himself, and every time Joe went there he felt compelled to find a home for at least three things, but tonight was not the time.

At least his apartment had Central Air, which was a blessed gift after the heat of the airless valley.

There was no discussion about sleeping arrangements. They just made their way to the apartment's one bedroom and tossed their clothes, settling under the covers with legs tangled, Joe's arm tucked around him so that he'd know if he tried to get up in the night to 'just get one thing down'. It was a long-standing act of familiarity and solidarity and comfort that had originated somewhere in England, when all they had was each other and a lot of guilt and anxiety about what they were doing and what they should have done, or what they shouldn't.

It was an open secret amongst those who knew them best, hard to hide when crammed into a super-sized tin can for weeks at a time. There had been too many nights over the years when one had crawled into the other's bunk before dawn and still been there by the time Charlie or Dan or Henry dragged them out for soundcheck. There was also the time when Patrick had spent the night trying to find the bottom of a bottle with Gabe, after years of not really drinking, thanks to an article by some two-bit hack in some shitty magazine, and managed to accidentally spoon Jim. Fortunately for both of them, Jim was one of their oldest friends and sent him off to Joe's bunk with a dudesome hug rather than a bloody nose, but it still entertained the rest of the crew for the next two days.

Jim was just lucky that he was only in the mood for spooning, that night.

"I can feel you doing that," Joe murmured against his forehead as restless fingertips used his ribs as a fretboard, just as they had the table, earlier.

"I know."

"It's like six in the morning, man. Go to sleep."

Patrick just nodded and tucked his head under Joe's chin, drifting off far quicker than Joe had expected. He listened to his breathing even out, rubbing at the soft rolls on his side, fingers tucked under his shirt, remembering times after break ups or other hurts when they'd comforted each other in other ways. It never became more than a cosy arrangement, a mutual kindness, but sometimes he wondered if it would just be easier to cut out all those other people for once and for all. He thought he could live with this, maybe.

But for now, he was a comfort blanket; another heartbeat in the blacked out room. In the morning - the real morning, once they'd slept, not the one already dawning outside the curtains - he'd be the chilled out friend who'd keep his marbles contained somewhere safe.

When he opened his eyes again, Patrick was already awake and looking at him across the little valley between their pillows, the fine strands of hair that fell over his face cutting stripes through his eyes. The curtain was half open, so at some stage he must have gotten out of bed and Joe wondered what else he might have been up to while Joe was resting.

"Hey."

"Morning, little dude," he smiled, pushing the hair from his face. He lifted his head a little, looking around for the alarm clock. "What time is it?"

"Eleven-ish. We should get back to Neal's."

"Nope," Joe informed him, rolling onto his back and stretching, hearing it click satisfyingly.

Patrick laughed a little, like he thought he was joking, and sat up, throwing the covers back. "C'mon."

"No," he insisted, catching the collar of his t-shirt with his finger and tugging him back down. "We're taking a day off."

"Don't be ridiculous, we can't - "

"Dude. I am not letting you leave this place for the next twenty-four hours, unless it's to get food."

"What? No!" Patrick turned to look at him, propped on one elbow, his face a picture of horror. "Joe - "

"Do you really want to be there when Andy figures out he's going to have to re-set his entire kit, dude, 'cause I don't."

"Fuck," Patrick groaned, collapsing onto his back against Joe's shoulder. "I'm such an asshole."

"True, but we're used to it."

It was Joe who called Andy to explain, then Pete, to prevent him scattering his own marbles when he showed up at Neal's and Patrick was 'missing'. He also called Neal, to apologise for the vanishing act, because even if he had a valid reason for it, it still felt rude.

Then, he settled on the couch beside him, shoulder-to-shoulder with his coffee cradled in his hands, and said, "I figured out your problem."

"You did?" Patrick asked, like he genuinely hoped Joe might have found something to un-stop his artistic block.

"Yeah. I think the issue is that you just don't enjoy it, anymore."

"I do…" Patrick argued weakly.

"That was uber convincing, man. I can see why they gave you that acting job."

"I _do_."

"Well, this isn't fun, though, right? Driving yourself into the ground is like, the opposite of fun."

"Well, yeah, but - "

"So, today, what we're gonna do, is we're gonna make music fun again."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah. Today, we're just noodling around and making shitty demos that are never getting aired or any of it. We can like, record the Mos Eisley Cantina song as a death metal track, or some shit. Whatever. It's just going to be fun, okay?"

Patrick's smile was soft as he gently rested his forehead against Joe's shoulder, nodding. "Okay."

And it was. It was ridiculous and pointless and hilarious, and by the time they ordered pizza that evening, Patrick seemed almost back to his affable, cheerful self. Joe watched him bite his lip with his nose scrunched as he squeezed a chord from the very bottom of his fretboard, while they recorded a playful (idiotic, laughable, completely unnecessary) riff battle, and laughed. Partly, he laughed because it was funny, and partly he laughed because it was a relief to see him enjoying himself. He'd been starting to think that maybe this really was it and everything was truly going to go to shit. Because he wasn't sure what would happen then. Whether, without the band, this whole thing would fall away. He didn't want it to. He didn't care if they never defined it or what it even was, but he wasn't ready to lose it, yet. He relied on it, and he liked to be relied on. Because there were times when this was the only way he felt valued.

So, he watched him play and added stupid features to make him laugh, too, and gave only his second- or third-best effort, so that they could both agree that Patrick's riff was far better. And then he convinced him to let him post it on his blog, so the kids could show him how amazing people already thought he was. After, full of pizza and pop, stretched out on Patrick's couch - both of them small enough to fit, even with the touchable softness of Patrick's belly and Joe's 'mom hips' - Patrick's back against Joe's chest with A New Hope on the TV, it was Patrick who said, "I wish it was always like this."

Joe inhaled carefully, trying not to let it sound too much like a wistful sigh. "It could be, if you wanted."

Patrick nodded, his head rested on one arm, and closed his eyes, humming the tune he'd been working on before he lost it, as the first clap of a summer storm rolled through the night above them.

_I wanna scream 'I love you' from the top of my lungs  
But I'm afraid that someone else will hear me_  



End file.
